Pink Houses
by Mlle Passpartout
Summary: One-shot style peeks into the lives of Belinda French and Mr. Gold.  Nothing serious  I think , just fluffy stories.
1. One Step Closer

**A/N:** A little interlude from _Broken Heart's_ and _Cabbages_! I was toying around with the idea, and man - all your writers who do prompt stuff almost exclusively, my goodness! DEEP respect and highest of fives, cuz this was nigh impossible! But, even still, I present my first prompt based fic from kisaraforever. The prompt was essentially a story in Storybrook verse after Gold and Emma find Belle and she is at his estate. This is what I came up with! I don't own OUaT, nor do I own "Mack the Knife."

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><p>The arrangement was designed because her father couldn't pay a dime for treatment, and the one-room apartment was suffocating. She didn't want to go back to the hospital, she couldn't live on her own, and worse, she had no friends, and no one with the resources to provide what she needed.<p>

After a week of panic attacks and night terrors that left her breathless and clutching onto the railing outside of the apartment at three in the morning, it was decided staying with her father was a non-option. Her father tried, but he was incapable, and Belinda was petrified – she couldn't go back, she wouldn't let herself this time…

Then he waltzed up, offering his help; it was done. She brought what little she had, was given a room and a bathroom – and though she had been determined to be miserable, she was somewhat comforted – there were no locks. And there were no curtains. And the best part was, the only rules she had were on her terms: take her medication; go to her sessions; that was it. She was free to do whatever else she liked.

So she took to reading – reading everything she could get her hands on, and then everything he had in his store. He allowed her to borrow, on the condition she didn't dog-ear the pages, and she held her end of the bargain. Then, there was, of course, the cooking. Amongst the things she found, there was a cook book. It quickly became her favorite experiment, and he let her keep it – she never even had to ask. It just found its way onto the shelf in the kitchen.

It was a sublime escape.

She threw herself into preparation. There was independence in it that she didn't anticipate. She got to buy things, had her own credit card (though it didn't really count, it still had her name on it), and the store wasn't far – she liked to walk there, even if people didn't really talk to her, she liked to see them, and walking past the elementary school made everything worth it. It felt so nice to hear laughter, and soon enough she was orchestrating all of her walks for the middle of the school day, right after lunch when the children flooded the schoolyard and filled it with the sounds of play and fancy.

Then, she carried her bags back and she set upon the kitchen; it was like her home base. She liked her bedroom, but it felt so small – so… square. The kitchen was open, and with a huge picture window over the sink, and several more around the little breakfast nook, if one could call it that, with the window seats – so perfectly New England. Then there were the open door frames – no actual doors, it was as though it was meant for her - so free and full of light, and she could open the back door and let the breeze come in through the screen.

Then, then she'd found the radio amongst the gadgets and trinkets he amassed in the messy house. After a little fiddling with it – Belinda was surprisingly handy –it played out whatever she wanted it to on any given day: country, oldies, top 40, classical: whatever suited her mood.

In this place, with the windows and the music, she felt light, happy, and free – up to her elbows in ingredients, and with the burners going and the oven heating – she felt powerful. She could create, and do whatever she pleased, and the best part was there were no rules.

Her recipes were guidelines, but she could dictate what she followed and what she didn't. There were natural rules, like one did not mix red wine with fish because of taste, but even then, Belinda was adventurous. She pushed, and really prided herself on her creations. They were welcome on the table too, and Belinda always smiled at the empty plates she deposited in the sink.

Her latest attempt was going to be a rack of lamb. She had teased him the day before, one of the rare moments they interacted outside of cordial pleasantries, and she called him a sheep in wolf's clothing. So, she decided dinner would be tongue in cheek. It was at least a semblance of normalcy. She told Dr. Hopper about her idea and he encouraged it, albeit in that nervous way he always did.

She assured herself, and him, that it would go perfectly well, after all, the weather was an omen enough! The sky was bright blue and there was a spring breeze so delicious she could have just taken a mouthful of sunbeams and wind and have been nourished forever. Her freckles were coming back, the more time she spent outside and walking, and she even wore a sundress today, sunny and yellow, just like how she felt. She couldn't remember when she felt so good.

Maybe it was just a bit of mania, but her medication had been working, and she didn't feel manic. She felt… like she had no worries in the world. It was the most glorious feeling she could have ever imagined. So, she threw the kitchen windows open, propped the back door, and mingling with the music from the radio and her voice were the typical kitchen noises, clanging and banging with intense preparation.

After having deposited the main course in the oven to cook, Belle reached toward the window and picked up the little radio, spouting commercials – she hated commercials. Twisting the tuner, she brightened considerably as she came upon one of her favorite songs.

"Oh the shark has pearly teeth, dear," she belted, despite the fact she was not actually Bobby Darin, "And he shows them pearly whites," and laughed brightly at herself, swaying to the gentle swing, it was just meant for dancing, and she twirled herself, coming to a halt with a gasp as the tips of her fingers were latched onto.

She hadn't even heard him come in. She had been so busy preparing, and a bright blush crossed her face. "You looked as though you could use a partner," he grinned, almost too suave for her to believe it was actually him. His cane was abandoned and he stood free of the literal crutch, perhaps the sunny day was benefitting everyone.

He had always been so… halted near her, like he was truly uncomfortable to see her. But now, he was smiling at her, and it was so… real. It reached the pit of her stomach and her eyes were glassy for a moment before she nodded and clutched his hand back, "Thank you," she dipped into a playful curtsey and let him put his arm around her waist, surprised at how muscular his arms felt under the layers of his suit, and adjusted their already joined hand.

They did not exchange any words as they swayed, to the swinging rhythm. It seemed so natural when she swung out and then straight back into his arms with an embarrassed laugh. He just smiled at her, non-judgmental as she blushed and held onto his lapel a little tighter.

"I didn't know you could dance," she laughed, still pink in the cheeks, as he lifted her hand up and released her waist so she could spin again, letting her enjoy herself.

When she was back in his arms, he dipped her just slightly more than she expected and raised his eyebrows, "There is a lot you don't know about me, dearie," he grinned, and Belinda saw the row of white teeth behind the – _was charming the word she was looking for? Maybe _– smile. There was, notably, one gold tooth that she could see.

"Maybe," she grinned back as they resumed being fully upright, "my earlier assessment was wrong."

"What assessment was that?" he asked, amusement clearly present in his more pronounced accent. Belinda was suddenly very aware of how close they were, and she strangely found she didn't mind.

It was her turn to be cheeky, and she smirked at him, feeling bold – bolder than she had felt in ages. "You're not a sheep," he seemed pleased, but she added, "You're not a wolf either." He frowned at this, though not seriously, and Belle giggled.

"What am I, then?"

She stepped out from the tight embrace and swiveled her shoulders playfully, giggling and holding onto his hand a little tighter when the hand that had previously been on her waist fell – almost defeated. "A shark," she announced as the final notes of the song played and she tripped forward, over her own feet – so clumsy, and he wrapped his arms around her, steadying her.

It was a pregnant pause. She breathed heavily and he did too. Their eyes were locked on one another and Belinda was so… it felt so familiar! It would drive her mad! She regained her footing after several tense moments and gulped. She still hadn't removed her arms from around his neck, and he hadn't taken his off of her waist.

She was the first to release, and his arms immediately dropped. "Clumsy me," she bit her bottom lip with a bout of nervous laughter, running her hands over the skirt of her dress, sure that her face must have been the brightest shade of red that ever existed. "Sorry," she mumbled, fumbling for something else to do in the heat of moment.

"No matter," he half coughed-half spoke and reached for his cane like it would save him from the awkwardness of that tense moment.

Belinda played with the corners of her robin's egg blue apron, "I'm making lamb for dinner," she blurted out, unsure of what else to say, if there was anything to say. She still felt that strange knot at the bottom of her stomach, and felt too embarrassed to meet his golden-brown eyes.

"Chum might have been more appropriate," he pointed out as she looked down, and her eyes snapped up, as though asking him what on Earth he was talking about. "Just a quip, dearie," he smiled softly, and the sentence hung in the air for a moment, as though she was supposed to respond, but she came up empty.

He shook his head. "I'm sure it will be very good." It was halted. They were back to halted. "I'll be in the office," he informed her, "I'll join you when dinner is finished." And he limped across the front room to the door that hid his books and work desk – and the oldest desk top she had ever seen; apparently he was not interested in upgrades.

She sighed, watching him walk away. His limp was more pronounced, and her eyes traveled down his back, lingering before sweeping back to the radio. She huffed and went about turning it off in the most frustrated manner. She hated commercials.


	2. Over the Banister

**A/N: **So, rather than posting a bunch of one-shots as separate stories, I thought every time I wrote one, I'd just catalog it here. These are based in Storybrooke without real explanation of much of anything - just fluff to soothe the soul, I think. I hope you enjoy!

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><p>She had been scrubbing the bathroom up in her room, ripped jeans and over-sized, off the shoulder sweater on, when she heard a car outside. Now, it was the middle of the afternoon and Belinda couldn't imagine who would be coming around at two thirty on a Wednesday. Curiosity got the best of her and he walked out onto the third story balcony: she immediately recognized the vehicle.<p>

Apparently he was not working the full day, and being that she could scurry down the stairs much faster than he could ascend the front steps. Her bare feet carried her down the steps, hoping she would be able to greet him like she did every day, and she smiled as she reached the first landing, overlooking the entry way with the sun dancing in through the stained glass – the _tap, tap_ of his cane announcing he was on the stairs.

Perhaps, an earlier version of herself might have seen the tool as something of a weakness, but she thought it was distinguished, and a very good way of knowing where he was and identifying if he was lurking around. She was much better at being sneaky now, and he hardly fooled her – unless she had the radio on… but that was another matter entirely.

She heard the key turn in the lock and the door opened slowly. Belinda giggled softly and leaned further over the railing, bracing herself against it as she looked down at him and he closed the door behind him. "You're home early," she laughed gently as he smiled up at her.

His smile was so strange at first, so unlike anything she expected, but now she came to enjoy it more than anything – except, of course a good book, tea, and a fireplace. But, if she could have all four at the same time, she never complained. "Hullo to you too," he drawled, one corner of his mouth tugged up higher than other.

She stayed on the landing and giggled. "How was the shop?" she asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

He positioned himself so that he was standing under her, his hands resting on the handle of his mahogany cane and his chin inclined slightly up, to meet her eyes. "Good," he practically purred, "very good."

Belinda bit her bottom lip and she extended one her hands out, brushing some of his hair from in front of his eyes. "I'm glad," she blushed as he seamlessly caught her hand and drew it to his lips, pressing it to his lips. It was like a burst of heat on her cool skin and her breath hitched in her throat for a moment, particularly as his dark eyes sought her own, and he did not break that gaze.

Belinda felt her stomach lurch and she leaned just a little further over the landing. "You should come in tomorrow," he finally said, and she raised her eyebrows, questioning him. "It's getting dusty."

A hum rose from the back of her throat and she grinned at him. "I think you're lonely," she teased, feeling triumphant, having broken down the walls of isolation that encased both of them. "And having me there, it would make you happy," she added, a smug smile lighting up her face, along with the multicolored glass. She loved this part of the house, she decided in that moment.

"I wouldn't be unhappy," he responded. His smile was unguarded, maybe even hopeful. It wasn't the usual smile, the public one. He looked like this sometimes, when he was revealing something he didn't want anyone else to know. He used it when he wanted to let her in. She knew it was hard for him, and she soaked it in. It was at that moment that Belinda decided she couldn't help herself.

Her smile was subdued as she looked at him, and she leaned further over. "Well then, I guess that makes my decision for me," she watched his lips, her eyes travelling down to his throat, right over the knot of his Windsor tie, his Adam's apple bobbing anxiously, and her eyes started to close.

When their lips met, Belinda's heart jumped. It started as barely a brush, their lips just touching. For a moment she seized up, wondering if she had done something wrong. But, it didn't stop. He leaned up, capturing her lips in the kind of kiss she read about. She saw bursts of white static behind her eyes and her lips were burning. This must have been what fireworks felt like.

Kissing Mr. Gold was like nothing else Belinda had ever experienced. When they pulled apart, a flush on both of their cheeks, Belinda resolved that this was going to be the only way to greet him ever again.


	3. A Bit of Chiffon

**A/N: **Inspired by Bobby's response to a tweet yesterday ("Can't beat a bit of chiffon"), I was inspired to write this little piece as another addition to Pink Houses. Nothing in this is really in chronological order or anything of the sort, just... what I finish when I finish it! By the by, thanks for all of the kind words, follows, and favorites - I really appreciate it! Continue to enjoy and I hope this piece of fluff treats you well!

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><p>Sometimes, when Belinda was at the grocery store, she strayed into the section in the middle with the books and magazines. She didn't look at the books, they were just romance novels and not the good ones either – the ones that read more like instruction manuals than actual stories, and she hated the language… but that was not the point, she whisked right past them to the magazines.<p>

It was her guilty pleasure, picking up the thick, glossy books with the photo spreads and articles. She'd thumb though, gazing at the glamorous women in the pages, endless advertisements goading the readers into buying things, recipes to have, tips to read, magazines were fascinating. Occasionally she'd buy one, slipping it in with whatever she wanted to make for dinner…

One day, as she cruised over the new selection, Belinda couldn't help herself. She grabbed the thickest, fattest magazine and shoved it into her basket. When she went to the check out, the seventeen year old at the counter gave her the strangest look, and Belinda refused to blush or be embarrassed.

Her situation was… widely speculated on in town. She continued to be the town crazy, but for totally different reasons. First it had been because of her stint in the hospital, now it was because she worked in his shop, and lived with him. No one knew what went on between them; they were private people, but that didn't stop people from talking.

She was sure, at this point; the talk was not quite as innocent as it used to be. Belinda didn't care though. Gold saved her. Honestly, if people took the time, he was a good person. She supposed it was because he himself did not believe he was a good person, and that radiated to others who did not bother to push past the energy he emitted, but Belinda believed she was not the type to… let covers deter her.

So, she smiled at the young woman and took her bags, magazine safely tucked inside, and started to stroll back to the big, peach house. She teased mercilessly at first, but she adored the old Victorian. Jogging up the steps, she unlocked the door with her own key and shut it behind her, standing in the entryway for a moment. The sun streamed through the stained glass and she let out a deep breath before depositing the groceries in the kitchen and plopping herself on the couch with her newest acquisition.

With sticky notes galore, she marked up the pages, jotting notes down and getting lost in its contents. Everything was so beautiful and she marked page after page of things that caught her eye – things she'd never buy, of course, but things nonetheless. It was right that they both liked to have lots of things around, though Belinda preferred hers to be a little less dusty than his, they still liked things.

She got lost in her daydreams. When the door opened and Mr. Gold walked in – probably stopping, waiting for her to dart down the stairs, but got no such greeting, he called out. "Belinda?"

Gasping, Belinda dropped the magazine on the coffee table and bounded up from the couch, skipping over the polished wood floors and sliding to a halt in her dainty pink socks. "Sorry!" she chirped and easily snaked her hands up his chest and around his neck to greet him properly.

He laughed into her lips and Belinda wrinkled her nose, getting one extra peck out of him before he asked, "What had you so engrossed today, dearie?" Mr. Gold was not one to break routines, and he rested one hand on the swell of her hip, gripping enough that she could feel his nails through her soft skirt.

Belinda giggled and looked up at him, all smiles and both his face and his grip softened. "Nothing important," she kissed his nose, much to his surprise and started to slide her hands down the collar of his jacket, straightening it out of habit. Her eyes followed the lines of her hand and she admired the paleness against the dark suit, as well as the figure of the man her hands rested on, and then slipped them under his jacket to start peeling it off. He did not resist and Belinda grinned, "How was the shop?"

He shrugged, both in an effort to help her get the jacket off and as a reply. "Dusty," he remarked with a smirk. "You've been putting off your visit," he stood free of the cane for a moment for Belle to take the jacket and hang it on the banister, his eyes following her hands.

"Because as soon as I shop up the feather duster will be in my hand and I won't get to spend any time with you," she laughed and returned to leaning softly against him, loosening the knot of his tie with deftness that only came with practice. "And you know I hate that," she added with a light tap to his chest as chastisement.

His left hand came up to the curve of her jaw and caught her by surprise. His thumb graced her cheek, the rest of his fingers splayed across her neck and with just a little bit of pressure he tilted her head back ever so slightly. Belinda let the loose tie hang over his neck, her hands freezing. He didn't say anything for a moment that seemed to stretch on for infinity, his dark eyes raking over her face, down the curve of her neck and lower still. She felt her chest tighten. "I will just have to remedy that, then," he mused his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth before sliding over the plane of her what must have been bright red cheek and urged, with the right pressure, her forward.

She melted into him, and he tasted like longing. They both hummed with pleasure, and Belinda whimpered, just slightly as he pulled away long enough to nibble at her bottom lip. The blood was pulsing in her lips, desperate to be kissed again and restore the pressure, but he tilted his head to the side and caught her ear by surprise, a startled gasp fleeing her lips.

She blushed and giggled, wriggling away. His eyes were half-lidded and confused, murky with questions about why, but also apologetic, like he pushed her. She shook her head, a devious smirk rising to her lips as she slid her hand up his arm, placing her hand on his near her cheek, sliding his calloused palm to her lips and she pressed a kiss the center of his graceful hand, meeting his eyes before wrapping their fingers together and she tugged at him.

He swallowed hard and Belinda knew she could lead him off the edge of Mount Doom and he'd follow her. She had nothing quite so dramatic planned as that, of course, and tugged him toward the living room, "You've worked all day," she eased him down onto the couch, taking his cane and propping it against the side of the couch, leaning over him, one hand on the arm of the couch, the other near the side of his head on the back of the same piece of furniture to kiss him sweetly, before edging her way onto his lap in the most comfortable way for both of them.

"Much better," she declared, and the way his arm immediately went around her shoulder and a hand on her thigh – sneaky man having sneaked just under the hem, causing her to flush just a little as he drummed his fingers like her leg were a piano. She giggled and leaned forward to catch him in another kiss when his contented expression suddenly turned troubled. "What is it?" she asked with a little plea in her voice, slowly drawing her index finger over the top of his collar as a hopeful distraction.

Gold's eyes were trained on the coffee table. "Dearie," she followed his line of vision and she laughed out loud. "What is that?" he did not need to point to it. The latest issue of _Modern Bride _sat on the table, sticky notes poking each and every way out of it.

Doing her best not to laugh – though unable to restrain a grin, Belinda raised her eyebrows. "I've always been fond of chiffon." His face seemed to pale, and he licked his lips – probably gone completely dry, and Belinda giggled wildly, burying her face in his shoulder, trying not to cry with laughter, though she did snort. She believed she was the first person in the entire world to leave Mr. Gold speechless.

Pulling back and sitting up, Belinda brushed her lips against his forehead. "Don't be silly," she trailed kisses over his cheek, then to his lips. "Ashley wanted Ruby, Mary Margaret, Emma, and I to offer input." He visibly relaxed and Belinda giggled, running her hands through his hair, resting them on the back of his neck and shoulders, massaging the tense muscles in small circles.

He pushed up to kiss her, slowly and deliberately searching the recesses of her mouth, not exactly soft, but not too forcefully either, and Belinda exhaled through her nose, completely content. When they withdrew from one another, Belinda rested her forehead against his temple and giggled, "Though… if we keep carrying on in this manner…" And she swore she heard his choke. It was the hardest she had laughed for as long as she could remember.


	4. More than a Minute

**A/N: **Hi everyone! I know I haven't updated in a while, mostly due to the fact that I have a ton of school work that is suddenly piling up (sad day), but I wrote this and wanted to share it as part of the Pink Houses series. A little racier than I anticipated (though extremely mild by other standards, haha), but good times. Hope you like it!

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><p>It was a fairly typical evening in the pink Victorian on the corner of Vine and Tower Street.<p>

Mr. Gold sat on one side of the couch; his feet were up on the coffee table, and Belle sat on the other end, curled up with her book. The fire crackled in front of them as a light snow fell outside. All of the lights were off, except for the Christmas tree that Belle had insisted upon and her little bookmark flashlight.

The holiday had passed easily, they exchanged small gifts – she was currently absorbed in one of them, an old, leather bound edition of _Pride and Prejudice. _It was a guilty pleasure, he was sure, and she devoured the romance she seemed so familiar with. That was not her only gift, of course, but it was the one that still occupied her evening two days after the holiday was officially over.

There was also the necklace, a little pearl teardrop at her neck, which she hadn't taken off since he clasped it on her neck. They were simple, to be sure, and it was a relic from the past, something that found its way into his shop, and now it was on her neck. He was content to watch her, reading so thoroughly, furiously turning the pages before she smacked the book down. She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, shaking her head. He looked at her inquisitively, "Did something new happen this time, Dearie?"

She gave him an exasperated look, "Wickham," she curled her lip in disgust, "he is just so… smarmy! He pretends to be all charming and good, but really, he's just a rake – preying on girls for their money!" she threw her hands up. "I just need a minute away from him."

An uncomfortable smile played at Gold's lips, "Wicked man, he is."

Belle noticed his expression and immediately gasped. "Don't be like that," she shifted her weight so she could crawl across the middle seat of the couch and while on all fours, rested her cheek against his shoulder, peering up at him through thick lashes, gently nuzzling his shoulder with her cheek, "You are no Wickham."

He raised his eyebrows at her, unconvinced and she sighed, arching her back as her knees crawled closer before sitting huddled up next to him. One of her hands strayed to his arm and she giggled. "For one, you don't pretend to be nice," they both laughed, though his was considerably less amused. She wrinkled her nose at him and kissed his cheek. "Seriously though," she started, smoothing the fabric of his shirt over his arm. She liked when he only wore a button down, no tie, though he always wore dress pants. So overdressed, she thought, while she was wrapped in an over-sized sweater and leggings. "Your intentions are always obvious, perhaps not kind, but obvious, and you," she poked his chest, "are not a rake."

He turned his head to look at her, almost looking offended. "I'm not?" he put a hand to his chest, feigning surprise at her analysis.

A low chuckle bubbled from her chest, "No, you are nowhere near as bad as you think you are," she wrinkled her nose at him with a tiny shrug, "Besides," her eyes sparkled with mischief, "I don't have any money." This time, when they both laughed, Gold's grin was unabashed, and Belle considered perhaps he was wicked, or at least that look on his face might suggest so.

He turned his head so he could catch her lips in a kiss and Belle hummed happily, slow and lazy, like the past couple of days. They took their time, soft at first until he put his hand at the crux of her jaw, and the pressure increased. She let out a deep breath through her nose and slowly opened her lips.

They found a rhythm that suited them and Gold's hand slid back, behind her neck and into her mess of curls. Belle's hands slid up his chest, resting on his shoulders before she couldn't resist. She ran her hands over his thin face, and onto his temples, her fingers threaded through his hair. She definitely appreciated that it was long enough to grab onto.

The growl in the back of his throat intensified as Gold maneuvered his way over her. She leaned back easily, and their lips only broke apart when her head fell all the way back and she laughed breathlessly.

He leaned in again, but instead of capturing her lips, he bushed kisses over her jaw, and down her neck. His hair brushed against her face, her skin, and Belle gasped, it turned into a low moan when he nipped at her ear, pushing her hair away to place a hot, wet kiss just behind her earlobe. He pulled back and Belle whimpered at the loss of contact. He sat up and she opened her eyes slowly, hands over her head and one leg hanging off the couch. "You stopped," she pouted, voice thick.

Gold chuckled and leaned down again, inches from her face. She could feel his breath on her noise, but as she leaned up, he pulled back. Frustration colored her cheeks and she huffed. "It's been more than a minute," he used the back of his hand to brush some stray hair from her cheek, his touch so soft she turned her face to feel even more of his surprisingly smooth hand. She burned for his touch, but he only touched her feather light.

Belle shifted under him, hoping that she might entice him to join her again, but he had resolve that she could not imagine. She wasn't sure what game he was playing at, but she decided she would play back. "Has it?" she purred, drawing her hands down the front of his shirt, hooking her fingers in his currently unoccupied front belt loops, "I hardly noticed."

He turned his hand quickly and pressed his thumb to her lips, silencing her. The subtle movement of his hips was only accented by the jolt that went straight to the pit of her stomach, "Oh yes," he affirmed, another jolt, "I wouldn't want to keep you from the riveting conclusion." He traced the swell of her bottom lip, puffy from thorough kisses, and then moved to the top lip, following the bowed shape. She smiled and laughed, meeting his eyes.

"You know," she smirked, pressing a kiss to the pad of his thumb, "I think it can wait." That simple phrase was all it took; the book remained untouched for the remainder of the evening. Typical night, indeed.


End file.
